47 - A Castle Fan Fiction
by CharacterDriven
Summary: 47 is a somewhat mythic number in the Castle 'verse. My head is full of little questions about Castle, and sometimes little answers. Don't know whether I'll actually have 47 ideas but it's worth a try! It's turned into something of an emotional roller coaster. One per year of Castle's life. I promise not to kill him off at 47. I've amended his birthdate to April 1, 1971.
1. 47, ch 1: Goodnight Moon

One entry per year in the life of Richard Castle, at no particular given time, to be updated when he jumps up and down in my head and insists on it.

* * *

 **CHAPTER 1 - GOODNIGHT MOON**

 **December, 1971 – 8 months**

It was 2:30 a.m., and Martha Rodgers, aspiring Broadway star, exited a cab, hurrying to her apartment from an evening out after a performance. She stepped over a drunk on the stairway, let herself into the dingy building, and found the elevator out of order – again. With a sigh she kicked off her pumps and silently climbed the three flights to her floor. She padded down a long hallway lit with one dim yellow light bulb, to Apartment 309.

She slipped into the apartment and shut the door quietly behind her, throwing the bolt. Her roommate, Janie, had left the lava light by the door switched on, and its shapes caused blue light and shadow to shift around the room.

Martha went to the boys' room to check on them. She and Janie had created a comfortable system: each of them had a small bedroom, and they had converted the tiny dining room into a nursery. Janie had gone through a rocky divorce and worked a day job as a secretary while Martha watched the kids. Janie's four-year-old son, Derrick, was sound asleep on his toddler bed, a foot hanging off the side of the mattress, his long, blondish hair in cherubic, sweaty curls. He had kicked off his Space Ghost quilt.

On the other hand, Martha's son, Richard, was wide awake. She knew before she even came into the room, because, as usual, he was talking. Okay, at eight months he could only say a few words: Mama, Yay (that was Janie), Deh! (Derrick), Ba (ball) and boo' (book). Martha paused at the door, waiting, then peeked in. He was prattling to himself, holding a stiff cardboard baby book in his tiny hands. She'd read the book to him at least twice a day since he was born – _Goodnight Moon_. He was speaking quietly in a singsong voice, occasionally pausing to chew on a page or resettle his stuffed sock monkey.

 _Ee-a gay gee woo ewa a ho-oh aba weh bawoooo_  
 _ah ah eeya aba cow yiyi awwa da moo_  
 _aba tee ba beeya seeya ah shae_  
 _aba doo keekee aba payay me-me_  
 _aba coba buh, aba boda muh_  
 _aba gai yayyee oo ah wisabee HUJSH._

Martha realized from the distinctive pattern of his voice that he had memorized the book, and Derrick was sleeping through the whole performance, worn out by his tiny roommate's incessant activity.

She stepped quietly into the room and crouched down, watching her little man, completely absorbed in his book.

"Hey, Kiddo," she whispered. "Were you reading?"

Richard started, dropped the book and squealed, almost falling over with glee. She lifted him out of the crib and cuddled him close, his strong, round baby-arms tight on her neck. She dotted his little face with kisses. "Oh, you should be asleep, but I missed you so much!"

All he could say was "Mama! Weeba boo!" and point to it.

That was more than enough. "I thought you'd never ask," she grinned.

She laid a blanket down on the floor and set him on it, then reached back into his crib to grab his book. She said, "Would you care to read to Mother, Richard?"

He lay on his back, she handed him the book, and she helped him balance it on his tummy, opening it to the current page. Looking at the pictures, he murmured,

 _"Goobai moo._  
 _Goonai cajapee obadamoo..."  
_

Twenty minutes later, after he'd gone through the book twice more, he looked over to find his mother asleep. He already knew better than to wake her up. Mother was never very happy when he woke her up.

He smiled at her, and kept on 'reading'.

* * *

Author's note: illustration photo is from my daughter's babyhood; color enhanced but not otherwise altered. All I had to do was put the book on her tummy - of course she wasn't really 'reading' but she could keep herself quite entertained.

She looks rather like Nathan. Let's just say my DH is ruggedly handsome :-D


	2. 47, ch 2: Blue Moon

_One entry per year in the life of Richard Castle, at no particular given time, to be updated when he jumps up and down in my head and insists on it._

 _Warning: if you've ever taken care of a toddler, this won't freak you out._  
 _If you haven't, it probably will._

* * *

 **Published 3/29/2016  
** **CHAPTER 2 - Blue Moon  
**

 **2) December, 1972;** **1 year 8 months**  
With all the certainty of a train wreck, Martha's roommate Janie had fallen in love, and moved out with her boyfriend Bob a few months later. Of course, she took Derrick with her. Little Richard was devastated. Every time there was a knock at the door, he'd say "Where Dewick?" and, when of course it wasn't Derrick, he'd cry. Martha and Janie still had very different schedules, and it was almost impossible for them to get together. They managed to meet up for lunch a few times, and a playdate at the fast-food restaurant ball pit.

Derrick had gone through a growth spurt and was almost five, while Richard wasn't even two yet, and despite being tall for his age, that wasn't enough. Derrick no longer wanted to be associated with babies, and made it abundantly clear, climbing up onto structures higher than Richard could go, running faster, throwing the balls with reasonably good aim where Richard could barely grasp them with one hand. The play date ended with Derrick snickering, Richard weeping in frustration, and Janie and Martha barely on civil terms. After that, Richard didn't ask about Derrick anymore.

•  
The next roommate, Kathleen, was a beginning fine art student at New York City College. She was sweet, but a bit scatterbrained. They'd been living together peacefully for about three months, with Kathleen looking after Richard when Martha was at shows and rehearsals, in exchange for a break in her rent.

Martha had come home to find her boy a bit fussy, but happily consuming a fast-food milk shake that Kathleen had bought him to go. Martha just said, "Kathleen, darling, perhaps it's not a good idea to give him a milkshake the size of his head so close to bedtime."

Kathleen shrugged nervously. "His tummy seemed a little upset. I thought it might soothe him a little."

Martha nodded, took the milkshake away from the baby, and put the rest in the fridge. "You can have that in the morning, Kiddo," she smiled, and added, "Now it's bath time." She carried Richard to the bathroom and, over the sound of running water, Kathleen heard her shriek. "Oh, my God. It's... it's blue! Kathleen!"

Kathleen came running. "What is it? Is he okay?"

Martha had removed Richard's diaper to find that its contents were... "Why is his poo blue?" she demanded. "What did he eat?"

Kathleen peered at the diaper. "Well, really more of a greenish-brown, but..."

"IT'S BLUE!" Martha thundered.

"It was Ultramarine," Kathleen seemed to sink into herself. "I - he has such a long reach. I forgot. I set a tube on the table and turned my back for just a second..."

"Oh, no!" Martha gasped. "Why didn't you call me?"

"Well, he was all blue, and I called Poison Control, and read the ingredients. They looked it up and said to give him lots of water to dilute it, and ice cream to coat his stomach. He seemed fine. I got his mouth all rinsed out and gave him a bath, but I guess he did swallow some... I'm so sorry, Martha. But he's fine, see?"

Kathleen smiled and waved at Richard, who waved and smiled back, and it was only then that Martha realized that his tongue was still a bit on the blue side.

Martha stared long and hard at Kathleen.

"I want you to pack your art supplies away now."

"Uh, Okay. Sure."

"And I want you out of here in three days."

Kathleen's eyes teared up. "Really?"

"Yes. Really." Martha's face was white, still, and cold.

"Okay. Martha, I'm so sorry! It won't happen again!"

"I'm sure you are. And I'm sure it won't. Because you're moving out. And one more thing?"

Kathleen hung her head, "Yes?"

Her expression was so miserable that Richard picked up on it and started to cry. Martha started wiping his little blue bottom down in preparation for his bath, trying to get the worst of it off.

"Kathleen, promise me that you will never, ever breed."

Kathleen giggled nervously. "Oh, come on, Martha. That's... just... _mean."_

Martha shook her head. "Everyone makes mistakes. But you agreed to keep your art supplies out of his reach, and I trusted you, then you tried to _hide_ it from me. So I'm not being mean. If you think child endangerment is a joke, think again, Sweetie."

She closed the bathroom door gently between them, and there was complete finality in the gesture. Kathleen started to pack up. She heard them laughing and splashing in the bathroom.

In the middle of the night she heard Richard crying because his tummy hurt, and possibly Martha crying as well. She didn't dare ask after either of them.

Kathleen moved back home with her parents two days later. The only thing Martha said to her before she moved out was, "Just hand over your key, and write down your forwarding address."

Three days before Christmas, Kathleen got an envelope in the mail. There was no return address. Inside was just a plain white card with a small, rather smelly, greenish-bluish-brown hand print on it, and a cursive note:

 _"Richard's art career appears to be off to a good start.  
Good luck in your future endeavors.  
Sincerely,  
Martha Rodgers"_

•

* * *

 _A/N When one of my siblings was about 2, they drew all over their bedroom wall with poop. It was gross, but nobody died. My mom thought it was hilarious.  
As far as I know, none of us ever ate paint.  
_


	3. 47, chapter 3: Follies

_If you're under 30 years old, remember that before you were born, being a single mother was pretty much a brand of shame. It was very difficult to get support, and women were often abandoned by their families. Martha's decision to keep Richard and raise him on her own was tremendously courageous._

* * *

 ** _47, Chapter 3: Follies_**

 ** _3)_** **February, 1973; age 22 months**

The babysitter didn't show, didn't even call, but the flu was going around, and Broadway auditions wait for no one. Martha had to take Richard to audition for Follies via subway, then stroller. At just under two years old, he was still napping for an hour or so every afternoon, so she hoped she might get lucky... and she did. He'd fallen asleep on the way to the theater, and she concealed him at the back of the house, near the exit door in the corner, hoping nobody would notice his stroller and baby bag. While performing a monologue from The Women, she peeked out into the seats and could tell she had the director in the palm of her hand. For her song and dance, she had chosen a comical version of "Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend". She had just belted out

" _But square-cut or pear shape, these rocks don't lose their shape!"_

when the baby started screaming, having awoken in a dark and unfamiliar face with art-deco murals looming above him (there may have been bas-relief tentacles in there).

The pianist stopped playing, and after a moment's agonizing baby-screaming, Martha stopped too. "I'm so sorry, if you'll just excuse me one moment." She hurried down the stairs and ran up the aisle to the back corner of the theater, pulled Richard out of the carriage, and held him close, bouncing him gently while he wailed and whimpered, twining those small, strong fingers in her long red hair. The director sighed and looked back at her coldly, then shook his head and turned away, back toward the stage. The production assistant said, "Next?"

And that's why she didn't get the lead role in Sondheim's "Follies". But she never brought it up in her stories, not even in her one-woman show. Some things are better left unsaid.


	4. 47, ch 4: How To Fall Down

_Note, I do not own any of Castle's characters or plot lines; I merely play off them for fun._

 _If you like Martha stories, author GeekMom has a whole series of backstory tales under the name "Martha's Heart". They are different from my take on it, but beautifully done. Highly recommended reading that gives insight into these wonderful characters. :-)_

* * *

 **47: Chapter 4  
How To Fall Down and Get Back Up Again**

 **4) December, 1972, age 3**  
Martha took Richard skating, for his very first time, at Rockefeller Center. She was a good skater and a good teacher, and although he fell down, over and over and over again, she encouraged him gently, her merry blue eyes reassuring. "It's all right. You're supposed to fall down. All you have to do is get back up again." He wasn't wearing diapers anymore, so this was his big-boy reward for being potty trained, and even though he somewhat missed the padding when he fell on his skinny little butt, she was so proud every time he got back up that it was all worthwhile.

For such a young child, he was amazingly focused on the ice and on his mother's face as she skated backwards, holding his little mitts in hers. He didn't notice the sun had gone away, and it was now dark. The rink had grown quite crowded. She picked him up, and twirled him around, and then the whole crowd started chanting, counting backwards. "Ten, nine, eight..."

"Richard," Martha said. "Look. Look at the big Christmas tree."

She pointed up with her right hand as he clung to her shoulder, his bottom cradled in the crook of her arm. The tree loomed by Rockefeller Center, a dark, mysterious triangle pointing up at the snow-laden clouds far above. "Count with me, Darling."

"Four! Three! Two! One!"

The tree lit up in a blaze of light. The crowd erupted in cheers, and Richard trilled, "OH MY GOODNESS!"

Martha laughed and kissed his thin cheek, which was pink with cold.

"You weren't expecting that, were you?"

" _No!_ " He laughed and shook his head, the ball on his knit beanie bobbing. He held his little arms out wide and bellowed, "S'PRISE!"

"Let's go get some hot chocolate," she said. Setting him down, she took his hand, and they skated back to the rental shack, where they traded in their skates for their street shoes.

* * *

She took him to Remy's, which still had the same harvest-gold-and-pumpkin decor as when she'd worked there before he was born. She sat with him in one of the big, ugly orange vinyl booths.

Their waitress was named Jo. She was a tall brunette with a sweet smile and dark-green eyes. The most beautiful woman Richard had ever seen, aside from his own mother, of course.

Martha ordered a coffee with cream, because her stomach was utterly empty and they'd had spaghetti with margarine and frozen peas for dinner that evening.

"And you, sir?"

Richard hid his face shyly in his mother's warm red wool coat, then peeked out at the waitress, and gave her a bashful smile.

"It's all right, Richard, use your words," Martha had an arm around his shoulder, and pressed a little kiss to the top of his head. The knit cap had come off, and his hair stuck out in all directions. With the soft brown fluff, the big blue eyes, the thick eyelashes and the beginning of a rather beaky nose, he looked like a baby emu.

Jo sank down on her haunches, elbows on the table, and peeked at the cutest little boy ever. She said softly, "Do you like hot chocolate?"

He nodded, then hid his face again, then peeped out at her and smiled.

Martha and Jo exchanged grins. Oh, what a little flirt he was!

"Would you like whipped cream or marshmallows?"

He sat bolt upright, beaming as if someone had flipped a switch, and said, "Want BOTH!"

"Great!" The waitress beamed at them.

Martha said, "Say please, son."

He bounced on the seat. "Pwease! May I have both?"

Johanna laughed, then caught Martha's anxious eyes. "For you, Kid? Both. No extra charge." Martha sank back, relieved. She had exactly enough cash with her to have this treat and catch a taxi back to the South Bronx, if she didn't go overboard and if they didn't get stuck in traffic. Otherwise she'd have to carry him home from the subway, and it was a cold night.

Jo returned a moment later with coffee, a pitcher of cream, and Richard's little brown mug of cocoa. There was a ring of whipped cream piped around the brim, and in the center a swirled island of marshmallows floated in a chocolate sea. The whole thing was dusted with cinnamon sugar. And there was a little ramekin of maraschino cherries on the side.

Richard stared with immense round eyes and said, "Thank you very much," without even having to be prompted.

"What lovely manners!" Johanna set the mug down and said, "it's not too hot, but make sure you blow on it a little just in case."

Martha said, "Is Remy in back tonight?"

"You know him?"

"I used to work here, before my son was born."

"Oh! Well, he's off tonight. But shall I tell him you said hi?"

Martha shook her head. "No, that's all right. I doubt he'd remember me anyway, there's always been such a turnover here."

Jo chuckled. "Remy's Revolving Door. Yup." The cook rang a bell, and Jo ran off with a pert "'Scuse Me." Martha and Richard sat quietly, Richard coloring on his paper place mat with the crumbling crayons set in a cup by their ketchup bottle. Martha looked out the window, hoping the snow would hold off until they got home.

Then Jo stopped back by the table with a warm cherry turnover, cut in half, steaming. "Cook misread an order and heated up two by accident." She set it on their table with a couple of forks.

Martha bit her lip. "I'm sorry, we can't..."

Richard had already grabbed a fork, then stopped wordlessly, looking up at her with sad blue eyes.

Jo shrugged. "Oh, you know how Remy is. He hates good food going to waste."

Martha nodded and gave her best Remy imitation. "When I am in France in war, we eat what we can find. There is no mush difference between a cat an' a rabbit!"

Jo rolled her eyes, then laughed. "Ha! You got him down."

They ate the turnover, and Jo gave Martha a free coffee refill.

When she got the tab from Jo, the waitress gave her a wink. All she'd charged them for was a single coffee.

* * *

They took the cab home, singing Christmas carols the whole way. When Martha paid the fare, the driver took one look at their dark, dilapidated apartment building and tipped _her_. "That was a pretty entertainin' fare," he insisted. "Buy some Christmas lights or somethin'."

Martha hesitated, then nodded. "Thank you. Drive safe."

"Wouldn't do it any other way," the driver said. "Merry Christmas."

He pulled out onto the street, and before he rolled his window up, Martha and Richard heard his voice growling out "Jingle Bells" into the frigid night air.

•••


	5. 47, ch 5: Blazing Sofas

Dear Guest who wrote this: THANK YOU!

 _:As established in Hollander's Woods, Rick was born in 1971. He said he was 11 in February of 1983. His birthday is in April, which means he would soon be 12. Therefore, he was born in April of 1971 and will be 45 this year._

•••  
I know that SOMEWHERE in canon it was established that Rick was born in 1969, but I can't remember where. (or am I crazy?). His date of birth is recorded as 1969 in the Castle wiki. The dates in this story have been fixed to reflect the 4/1/71 birth date.

Note, if you've read or are reading my long Castle novel, "Too Soon," some of the incidents in this story are expansions of hints or flashbacks mentioned in that novel. Not repetition, rather extrapolation. I love thinking about how Rick becomes the man we don't get to meet until he's in his late 30s.

* * *

 ** _Chapter 5: How Richard Got That Scar Over His Left Eye_**

 **5) August, 1975 – age 4**  
It was blazing hot in Manhattan that summer, and Martha was sweating through a rehearsal of _Cabaret_ when the stage manager, Harry, flagged her down. "You, uh, you got a phone call." On top of his usual air of sarcastic irritation, he looked a bit concerned.

Martha's gut swallowed her heart like a bullfrog swallows a firefly. "What is it?"

"Your building super. Said he's been callin' all over town. I guess your apartment burned down."

"Oh, my God..." Martha ran to the dressing room to collect her purse, with Harry following close behind, plowing through a gaggle of concerned chorus girls who'd heard the whole exchange. Martha ignored them. "Is anyone hurt?" She had managed to keep her single-mother status a secret this time around.

"Yeah, you need to get to Bronx General. Your kid got a bump on his head and the nanny's a mess."

"My _kid_..." Martha was at a full sprint by the time he was halfway through the sentence, and she flagged down a cab by running out into the street and standing in front of it.

* * *

Richard had been eating ants-on-a-log and watching MisterRogers. He was pretty sure that MisterRogers was his dad, because MisterRogers liked him no matter what, and they had the same last name. Richard had made enough ants-on-a-log for both himself and his imaginary best friend Mikey, although the nanny, Miss Diane, would most likely eat them before Mikey got around to it. Miss Diane always ate Mikey's lunch if he didn't finish it.

Richard didn't like Miss Diane much. She put extra layers of perfume on when she really just needed to take a bath, she smoked, and she never played with him unless his mother was around. She would do enough cleaning to keep her job, then spend much of the afternoon sacked out on the couch with a big glass bottle of water she kept in her oversized knockoff purse. The water smelled funny.

After MisterRogers was over, Miss Diane shooed Richard off to his corner of the studio apartment to read. He had quite a few books memorized and was starting to piece the code together, the letters starting to make sounds in his head, sometimes even words. He was reading The Little Red Hen, his finger tracing each word. "Willl... you... help... me... bake... my... b-rrrreee- a-d? Breed?" he hunched, puzzled, then looked at the picture of the hen with her mixing bowl. What did mixing bowls have to do with... he turned to the next page, peeked at the illustration of the steaming golden loaf, and crowed, "BREAD!"

He sniffed. Something was baking, all right. Miss Diane was asleep on the olive-green plaid sofa, surrounded by a cloud of gray-brown smoke. Her cigarette had burned right through the arm rest, which was on fire. Richard loved firemen and he knew all about putting out fires. He grabbed the first liquid he saw – Miss Diane's 'water' bottle – and dashed it onto the flames.

He had no way of knowing it was vodka.

 _WHOOMP!_ A small fireball erupted and Miss Diane awoke with a scream. Barely aware of the situation, she kicked the little boy right in the chest. He spun away, and smacked his forehead against the side of the TV table. This knocked him out cold, with a deep vertical gash above his left eyebrow.

This was a cheap, neglected building in the South Bronx, and there were no fire extinguishers at hand. All the fire alarms had been vandalized or disabled. Miss Diane began smacking at the flames with a crocheted acrylic yarn afghan Martha had bought in a thrift shop. The yarn just melted.

"Oh my god omigod OH MY GOD. FIRE! FIRE!"

At this point, Phil and Teddy, the two 'confirmed bachelors' across the hall, were pounding on the door. "Marti, you okay in there?"

Phil was bigger, his voice deeper. "Maybe you should kick the door down."

Teddy's was higher, almost girlish. "Right, like I could kick a door down in these heels. I'll go call the super. You try to get in."

Phil kept knocking. "Martha? Are you home?"

Miss Diane threw the door open and the influx of fresh air fanned the flames. Phil and Teddy had been interrupted during a romantic moment, and Phil was wearing a pair of black leather chaps and some motorcycle boots, and a leather harness across his shoulders. He said, "Where's Marti and Richie?"

Miss Diane looked him up and down with disgust. From her odd expression he only then remembered that while he was wearing chaps... he wasn't wearing pants underneath them. But that was the least of his worries.

The babysitter grabbed her bag, stuffed the empty vodka bottle inside, and ran off down the hall as fast as her thick trotters would carry her.

In concluding that Miss Diane was definitely not Martha, Phil realized she was the babysitter, and little Richard wasn't with her. "Richie?" said Phil. He peered into the now-blazing apartment and saw the small, still form on the floor. "Oh, my God. Oh, sweetie. Hang on!" He hurried to the limp, injured child, and picked Richie up, carrying him swiftly out of the inferno, then down the hall to the stairs, bellowing, "Teddy! Teddy, call an ambulance!"

On the second landing down, he nearly tripped over Miss Diane, who had fallen down the stairs and landed with her leg at a very awkward angle, and was now rocking back and forth, moaning in pain.

"Serves you right," said Phil. He dodged past her. He might have shaken his bare butt a little once he'd passed her by.

"Aren't you gonna help me?" she wailed.

"Kiss my sweet ass, honey!"

* * *

When Martha arrived at the hospital, she hurtled into the emergency room and checked in with the admitting nurse. "I'm looking for my son. Richard Alexander Rodgers. He's four years and, and..." she was trying to count the months down on her fingers. Her voice snagged on a sharp sob.

There was a hand on her shoulder, with auburn hair sprouting from the back of the knuckles. "He's fine, Martie. It's okay."

She recognized her neighbor, Phil, from across the hall. They'd always been on cordial terms, waving hello in the entryway, but she barely knew either Phil or Teddy, aside from the fact that they had nicknames for everyone in the building, some more flattering than others.

Phil smelled like smoke, there were blackened smudges on his face, and his reddish eyebrows were more than a little singed. He was wearing black boots and leather pants, but for some reason there was a blue hospital gown draped around his torso.

"Your latest babysitter set your apartment on fire."

"OH." Martha pressed her hands to her mouth, tears building in her blue eyes. "Is...did everyone make it out okay?"

Phil nodded. "Yeah, but that green plaid couch of yours? History." He shook his head in mock-sympathy. "It's probably for the best."

Martha was in no mood for joking. Her eyes darted around. "What are we going to do?"

Phil shrugged. "The Red Cross can help you out, or you can stay with us till you find a new place."

"Stay with..."

"Sure. We have two bedrooms but..." he rolled his eyes playfully, then waggled his eyebrows and whispered, "We only use the one."

The nurse handed Martha a form to sign, then indicated Phil. "Your little boy's lucky, you got quite a hero there."

Phil blushed. "Aw, pshaw, all I did was find him. "

Teddy had just come out of the restroom. He was wearing a silk bathrobe and a pair of high-heeled pink marabou slippers.

"Oh, hey, Teddy, you remember Martie. Richie's mama."

Teddy continued for Phil: "And pick him up. And carry him out of the building..

Phil said proudly, "Teddy called the ambulance and helped Mr. Ratostino put the fire out."

"Ratostino?" Martha said faintly.

"Agostino. The super."

"What about the sitter?" said Martha.

"A useless pile o' trash," rumbled Phil.

"A cigarette and a bottle of vodka? Recipe for Le'Avocado Vert Sofa Flambé!" smirked Teddy.

Martha's lips became a thin white line of mama-bear rage. "Ill kill her."

Just then, the ER nurse arrived and called Martha.

She waved to the handsome couple. "Thank you so much, gentlemen, but I..." she hurried away, calling over her shoulder. "We'll talk!"

* * *

When Martha got to Richard's bedside in the crowded ward, he was sitting up. A Candy Striper nurse about 17 years old was spooning chocolate pudding carefully into his mouth. He looked pale and anxious; there was a large bandage on his forehead, and his left arm was in a splint. There was a bruise blooming on his chest that looked suspiciously like a woman's size-8 footprint. His thick, fashionably long brown hair had been clipped closely in front by the doctors to better dress his wound. When Richard saw his mother, he pushed the Candy Striper's hand away and reached out toward Martha with a wordless wail, and she hurried to him, longing to clutch him into her arms but afraid of hurting him any worse. She took his hand, but he shoved off the covers and knelt up on the bed, trying to clamber up on her one-armed, clinging to her like a hurt monkey. They were both crying now. And he smelled awful, like roofing tar.

"Oh, Richard! Oh, sweetie, I'm so sorry. Are you all right?" Martha looked over at the ER nurse for permission to hold him, and the nurse said, "The arm's a minor sprain. He'll be fine. The head injury, bruise, and the smoke inhalation are really the issue, so we want to keep him overnight. Make sure there's no concussion."

Martha was shaking with adrenaline, fear, and the rage against Miss Diane she longed to express. He climbed into her lap, the unhurt side of his temple against her shoulder. "My head hurts. And they cut my hair." He coughed, his little ribs spasming in her arms. She wanted to hold him tightly, but was acutely aware of how fragile he was.

She said, "You look very well-groomed this way, but you can grow it back if you want to." They both gradually calmed as she rocked him in her lap, humming.

"I knew you'd come," he whispered. He sniffled, and the ER nurse handed her a tissue. When he blew his nose, the discharge was tinged with gray.

"Of course. I'm your mother. Mothers always come when we're needed."

The room was air conditioned. She was wearing a light tank top and short dance skirt; he was still in nothing but rather smoky underwear. They both shivered. She said, "It's chilly in here. Let's tuck you back in, all right?"

She and the Candy Striper got him positioned and cuddled up. With just his head and skinny shoulders on the pillow, he looked so very small. The ER nurse stepped in to take Richard's pulse and blood pressure, while the Candy Striper took notes.

"Mother, I don't think I want to be a fireman anymore," he said.

She wrinkled her brow, puzzled. "I suppose that's understandable. But I hear you were very brave. Tried to put the fire out?"

He nodded, and said somberly, "I blowed up the sofa."

"That wasn't your fault. Miss Diane was not being responsible. It was her job to take care of you."

His deep-blue eyes were large and serious. "I wish you was there."

Martha's throat went tight with guilt, and she didn't bother to correct his grammar. "I know. I wish I had been." She stroked his hair. "But Mother has to go to work. And we're lucky I have a job right now."

He nodded and said, "When I grow up, I wanna be a cowboy. Did you see Phil's chaps?"

Martha said uneasily, "He was wearing a hospital gown when I saw him."

Richard crowed, "He doesn't even have to wear underwear! That's the best job in the _world_!"

"You are amazing, Kiddo," she whispered, leaned over and kissed his cheek.

He said thoughtfully, "Maybe I wanna be a doctor." He beckoned Martha in and whispered a little too loudly, "The nurses are so pretty, and _her_ name is 'Candy Striper'! It matches her dress!"

The girl giggled. Of course that wasn't her real name, but she wasn't about to correct him. "You're cuter than most doctors."

The ER nurse said, "How are you feeling, Honey? Any dizziness? Are you seeing any spots or hearing funny noises?"

With a pitiful groan, he whined, "I'm dyyying." He fell back on the pillow with his eyes closed, pawed feebly at the air with his good hand, and croaked, "I neeeeed more puddddinnnngg."

Martha looked up at the ER nurse, who was trying not to laugh.

The nurse said, "Little man, you've earned it."

* * *

True fact: I had a babysitter named Diane when I was four. She was horrid. Ate everything in the fridge. Did not set the house on fire.


	6. 47, ch 6: No Place Like Home

**_CHAPTER 6_**  
 ** _This chapter accidentally got deleted but is now back in place. The next chapter, #7, is about the little monster. If you've already read it, skip to Chapter 8. On the other hand, if you need a dose of cuteness... indulge yourself._**

* * *

 ** **Castle Fanfic: 47 Chapter 6  
NO PLACE LIKE HOME**** **  
March 14, 197** **7** **– Age 5-going-on-6**

Richard had already taken his evening shower and was wearing his favorite striped pajamas. He was curled up at one end of Terry's cream-colored sofa. Phil had just bought a used 19" color TV with his tax refund (he was the sort of person who always filed on February 1, right after he got the forms in the mail). Martha had never owned a color TV before. Richard had seen color TV at friends' houses before, but this... apparently this was some kind of event.

"Oh, Richy, you are going to LOVE this movie!" Terry exclaimed. His black hair in curlers, and wearing a pink-and-orange robe, he bustled out of the kitchen with a tray and set it on the glass coffee table.

"What is it?" Richard reached out for the popcorn, which was still warm, and Terry said, "no, no, not till the credits have rolled. That's the rules, remember? Wizard of Oz."

Martha had just come in, and without directly correcting Terry's grammar, she said, "Yes, Terry's right, those are the rules." Richard jumped up and ran to her. She was still wearing her coat, and it had been chilly outside, he could feel it and smell the wind in her hair when he flung himself into her arms. "How's my big boy?"

He said, "Phil and Terry took me to the Park. The cherry trees are blooming! And we went on the merry-go-round."

"On the carousel? That's wonderful, Richard. Which animal did you ride?"

"The one with the scaly silver armor."

"So were you a cowboy or an Indian?"

Richard rolled his eyes and batted at her arm. "A knight, silly!"

"You're silly," she laughed, then she glanced at the TV. It was 7:45 p.m. "Shouldn't you be almost ready for bed?"

"We're gonna watch The Wizard of Odds."

"The Wizard of Oz?" Martha glanced at Terry. "But that will go way past your bedtime."

Terry batted his eyelashes at Martha and said, "Oh, come on, Martie. It only comes on once a year, and Phil's so excited about the new TV."

"Oh. Phil's excited. Where is Phil, anyway?"

Phil worked as a stage technician at a drag club in Soho. Terry rolled his eyes. "It's Sunday. Should've had the day off, but he had to go in. Someone spilled pink champagne on his light board. So he'll be home at 9 or so." "Just in time for the Courage song. That's his favorite."

Martha looked down into Richard's pleading blue pools of puppy-dog irresistability, and then Terry put the clincher on it. "Oh, come on, Martie. Richie's never seen it. It's part of our cultural heritage."

Martha rolled her eyes. "Oh, all right, Terrence, you win."

Terry gave a happy little giggle, then switched the TV on and went back to the kitchen for some napkins while the opening music and credits played in glorious black-and-white.

Martha hurried into her room and changed out of her street clothes, into something soft and flowy. Terry was quite the designer, and was always coming up with some post-psychedelic wrap for Martha to wear. Since most of her clothes had been too smoke-damaged ever to wear again, she had become Terry's fashion muse, which suited her fine since the clothes were gorgeous and tailored perfectly to fit her. Terry was a costume designer, worked all over the theater district, and spent much of his days at home, sewing. He often looked after Richard, picking him up after Kindergarten and acting as a general nanny in the long afternoons and evenings when Martha was in rehearsal or performance. It was a happy arrangement. Terry would have made a great mom, had he been born at another time.

The three were all sitting on the couch together as the story was established. Richard forgot all about the popcorn and stared at the screen, his eyes as big as saucers, as Dorothy's gray little life in Kansas was played out. Martha had taught her son to be very quiet while watching movies or plays, but at the first commercial break, Terry got up and turned the sound down, and Richard exploded in questions. I won't bother to write the answers. Either you know them all, or you really need to see that movie.

"Why doesn't Dorothy have any parents? Is the mean lady really gonna steal her dog? KILL her dog? Oh, my goodness, what a bad lady. Why is she so mean?"

Then the commercial break was over, and Dorothy sang Over the Rainbow, and Terry cried, singing the last part along with her, then Richard cried, and Martha hugged both of them. At the next commercial break, more questions. "How old is Dorothy? She's pretty. Does she live around here? Judy Garland. Could I write her a letter? She died? Why did she have to die?" (more tears). "I don't like this movie."

"No, no. It's just getting good now." Martha comforted him. He spent the next few scenes cuddled in her lap. Then, at the commercial break, more questions: "Is Professor Marvel really a professor? Who's Emily? What's a twister? Why are they hiding in the cellar? Auntie Em sounds like a chicken. Is Dorothy gonna be okay?"

"Yes, kiddo." Martha hugged him close. "Remember, she landed on that big, soft bed. She'll be fine."

The commercial break ended, Dorothy awoke and found Toto, slung the basket over her elbow, and opened the door.

Martha gasped. Terry pressed his hands over his mouth, then stood up so fast that popcorn scattered all over the floor. He shrieked, "IT'S IN COLOR?"

Richard just said, "Ooooh!"

The movie had come out in 1939, three years before Martha was born. She'd never seen it in the theater, only on small black and white TVs. Neither had Terry, who was in his early twenties but grew up poor, and of course Richard had never seen the movie at all. In the early 70s, color TVs were still very expensive, and the movie only showed once a year. So, while Martha and Terry had seen colorized stills and posters, neither of them expected the explosion of Technicolor that was Munchkin Land. At that moment, Phil came home, and Terry ran to him, hugged and kissed him hello, and dragged him to watch.

Richard announced, "It's in color!"

Phil grinned and ran a hand through his auburn hair. "You don't say!"

"I just did!" Richard corrected. "See? Her shoes are red. Her lips are red! I thought she was wearing black lipstick."

Phil laughed, then looked down at the scattered popcorn. "Oh, you are in a tizzy, aren't you." He wrapped his arms around Terry. "Worth the money, huh?"

Terry nodded. "You were right. Now hush, here comes Glinda." They all sat on the sofa again, ignoring the popcorn all over the floor until the movie was over. Richard was awake past 11 pm in sheer excitement, and Martha let him sleep in through the first hour of Kindergarten the next morning. So he missed out on the introduction to the St. Patrick's Day Leprechaun Trap project, but he caught up with that pretty quickly because he'd already made one in the Head Start preschool, and he had plenty of ideas left over.

* * *

For the following Halloween, Martha was Glinda, Terry was Dorothy, Phil was the Lion. And Richard?

A flying monkey.

* * *

Despite the warm, fake fur lion suit, Phil caught a cold, which turned into pneumonia two weeks after Halloween. The doctors put him on antibiotics, but they didn't seem to help. He was sick all through November and December. They did their best to make it a jolly Christmas, with bright lights and the toy train he'd gone back and stolen out of his parents' attic after they threw him out and told him never to come back. Christmas was lovely, but quiet. January was just sad, and quieter still, with Richard at the library most days because the weather was miserable and so was Terry, worried sick about the love of his life. Martha found an afternoon daycare situation for Richard, so that Phil could rest without being disturbed by normal childhood boisterousness. She and Terry took turns caring for Phil when he could no longer walk, or bathe, or speak.

There was something wrong with Phil's immune system. He'd been a big, muscular man, but now he grew more gaunt day by day, and even the lightest touch seemed to bruise him. They couldn't afford decent health care, and as a freelancer, Phil didn't have health insurance. The doctor had no idea what was wrong. There were whispers around the theater district of a contagious disease causing pneumonia, muscle wasting, dementia, even cancer. Terry asked Martha to move out in February, and while she was concerned for both of them, there was no knowing how contagious this mystery ailment might be, so she didn't argue. That was the last Richard saw of Phil, who had wasted away to a wheezing skeleton who sometimes didn't even recognize Terry. Phil died in March. By that time, Terry had found the first signs of Kaposi's sarcoma tumors in his own mouth. He sold the TV to pay for Phil's cremation.

When Phil died, quite a few friends came to the wake, and it was obvious that some of them were sick as well. Terry kept Phil's ashes in a glitter-covered urn, situated in a little shrine by his bedside.

* * *

Terry developed Kaposi sarcoma and committed suicide the following August, leaving Phil's collection of Christmas lights and toy train to Richard, and a box of carefully-selected, rainbow-hued outfits to Martha, some of them in hand-painted silk he'd cut and stitched himself. Richard was at school. The only people attending the funeral were Martha, and Terry's sister, Amelia. His parents, and very large extended family, all stayed away. Amelia and Martha watched the body placed in the crematorium, then Amelia turned away. "Well, at least that's all over."

"How can you say that?"

"He was a goddamn fag."

"Terrence was your _brother_."

Amelia said. "Yup. _Was._ But he turned his pansy back on all of us. He made his choice, and now he's burnin' for it." She spoke to the funeral director, a too-thin man in a black suit. "Send me the bill."

The funeral director handed her the can of ashes. "It will be mailed later this afternoon. I am sorry for your loss, Ma'am."

She stalked out, dumping Terry's urn in the trash container by the door, and the funeral director sighed after her, but made no move to follow or persuade.

Martha stepped to the trash and fished the urn out. "Oh, good. I had plans for these."

The funeral director nodded in relief. "Thanks. I have more abandoned urns than I know what to do with."

* * *

Martha took Terry's ashes home, mixed them with Phil's, and placed them in a cylindrical oatmeal box that Richard had decorated with crayons. They took a long, but pleasant, bus trip up to Niagara Falls.

There was a sign, of course. NO LITTERING. STRICTLY ENFORCED. And a guard right there to enforce it, standing stiffly out of the reach of the falls' spray, but still in view of the observation platform that overlooked Horseshoe Falls. The guard was heavy, his knees splayed a little. He swayed from one sore foot to another like a moored buffalo.

Martha breezed up to him and said, "We just saw someone driving off with a white car in the parking lot."

"White car? What color?"

"White," Martha repeated. "I think it was some sort of sedan. Although it might have been a wagon, I don't know, I was so frightened." She waved her arms, her bangles clinking. "They could have run us down! I don't know what this world is coming to nowadays."

Back then, security cameras were almost unheard of, and very expensive. The guard looked down at the small boy with her. "Did you see anythin', Little Buddy?"

Richard shrugged. "It had black tires."

The guard clutched at his radio and hobbled off in his polished, too-tight black shoes, leaving Ms. Rodgers and her son with a few moments to accomplish their mission. She opened her tote bag. "It's time to let them fly, Kiddo," she said. She held the box up and let RIchard pry the top off, and she emptied the oatmeal box of mingled ashes out over the roaring rainbowed falls, the motes of grainy gray dust billowing away on the eddying breeze, into the white spray.  
They didn't need the oatmeal box anymore, so they tucked it into the trash just before the guard returned. He said, "Lady, nobody's reported a car missing and there's about twenty white cars in the parkin' lot. You sure someone was _stealing_ a car?"

Martha shrugged. "I know what I saw, but maybe the thief lost his nerve. I'm just glad there's no harm done. So sorry for your trouble, Officer."

"Yeahhh... okaaay..." said the guard. He went back to his post, relieved there wasn't enough evidence to merit having to actually call the report in to the cops.

Mother and child walked away. Martha took Richard's hand and said, very softly, "They're together now. Over the rainbow, kiddo."

He nodded, his spray-dampened face streaked with tears and ashes. "In color."

* * *

They took the bus back to the city that afternoon, where they shared a tiny 10th floor studio apartment. It was the first time they'd ever had a place just to themselves, and it was eerily quiet. Martha opened the door and switched on the light. "There's no place like home, Kiddo."

Richard nodded somberly. "No place like home." His face crumpled in tears again, and all she could do was hold him.


	7. 47, Chapter 7: Little Monster

**_AN: I accidentally overwrote chapter 6 with Chapter 7. I think it's fixed now, but if the old English saying "at sixes and sevens" is any indication, I've probably bolloxed it up somehow. I appreciate your patience; my forte is not with numbers but with words and pictures.  
_**

 ** _Although I warned readers that this would be an intermittent story, I had no idea how intermittent it would be. The problem is that my internal Richard Castle jumps around in time, and leaves gaps, which I have to fill in chronologically when they make themselves known. Several chapters in the years ahead are already written. It's been fascinating watching him 'grow' into someone we know._**

 _ **I love this kid.** _

* * *

**_Castle Fanfic: 47, Chapter 7  
Little Monster  
_**

 **October 31, 1977 – age 6  
**  
Richard had been gearing up for Halloween for weeks. He had changed his mind about the costume almost daily, in no particular order: doctor, cowboy, fireman, Dracula, Frankenstein's monster, a dog, a secret agent, a police officer (Martha told him never, ever to call them cops), spaceman, alien, the Six Million Dollar Man, Spiderman, Peter Pan, Captain Kirk, Scooby Doo, a ghost, and for about twenty minutes on Thursday the 17th, Ginger from Gilligan's Island. But that turned out to be because of Martha's leopard-print dress, which was too big for him until he cut it into bits to serve as a Tarzan loincloth, which absolutely would not do for the Kindergarteners Halloween parade. Because it was too cold and you have to wear pants to school. Even on Halloween.

Martha wasn't even going to make the rent for November. She was between roles, working as a waitress at Remy's. She didn't have the money to buy him a mask. Instead, on the afternoon of the 26th, after the breakfast shift, she sat down with him, blew up a large balloon, and they tore up some strips of newspaper, laying them over the balloon with thin layers of paste she'd mixed from flour and water. They held the mask under her hairdryer between layers, and within a few hours, they had a lumpy-looking monster face. She used a craft knife to cut eye-holes, and punched holes in the sides for the ties. Of course the mask was a bit heavy, and tended to roll down on his face, so she added a bit of padding, a loop of coat-hanger wire, and the elastic from an old pair of pantyhose to give it some grip and help it stay on better. She'd done a bit of stage fencing in theatrical school, and figured out the balance without too much trouble.

"It's gonna be so scary when it's all monstered up!" he crowed.

She got out her theatrical makeup kit.

"All right, Kiddo. How shall we paint him?"

"Green all over. And red stitches like on my scar that time."

"Horrible scary black eyebrows?"

"Yeah! And LOTS OF BLOOD!"

"Are you sure?"

"It has to be super scary. It has to be the scariest thing in the whole wide world!" He was jumping up and down.

He wore it every day after school until Halloween, stomping around the apartment, flailing his arms and groaning.

Halloween morning, when he put his mask on in the playground before school, Jason Fielding actually screamed, and a snarling Richard chased him stiff-legged around the playground and into the bathroom. He got sent to Principal Henry's office. The principal, who was a stickler for discipline, looked the boy up and down, in his ragged black sweatpants and tee-shirt, and the mask out of a nightmare.

"What have we here?"

"I made it. With my mom. She took me to see Young Frankenstein at the Rialto. Have you seen it? It's really funny. Except the scary part in the coffin with the skeleton."

Principal Henry had indeed seen it. It was the sort of movie of which he was, officially, supposed to disapprove.

"I really should confiscate this mask, Richard. You know you're not supposed to frighten the other children. We've talked about this before."

The boy's face went red, his eyes filling with tears of anger and frustration. "But they're not really scared of me, they were all laughing."

The principal sighed. "It's not acceptable to chase people around. You're taller than most of the children in your class. Someone might get hurt."

"Not even playing tag?"

"No, of course..." Principal Henry sighed, looking thoughtfully at the green mask with its slash of a mouth, cut-out eyes, blocky forehead and massive chin, the scars and the blood... "You reallly worked hard on this."

Richard nodded. "Really we based it on the Christopher Lee movie. The scars are better." The boy gestured to his chest with enthusiasm. "You'd like that movie, the lady has really big..."

"Let me show you something." Principal Henry held the too-small mask over his own face, and growled, flailing his free hand around.

Richard stared up at him, wide-eyed, and backed toward the door.

Mr. Henry took the mask away from his face and sat down. "See?" he said. "It's scary."

"Wow." said Richard. "I didn't mean it." He fidgeted anxiously.

Principal Henry sang softly, "If you're blue and you don't know where to go to why don't you go where fashion sits..."

The boy stomped and squealed, "Pootin On da Wiiiitz!"

They both laughed. Then Richard stopped laughing. "Can I have my mask back?"

"May I please."

"May I please?"

The principal said, "Maybe."

The boy looked down at the floor. "What do I have to do?"

"You have to apologize to Jason for chasing him. And for the Halloween parade after lunch, you have a choice."

The boy's face screwed up in anxiety. "Okay?"

"You can either sit out the parade on the detention bench _and_ wear the mask, or you can tip the mask on top of your head and let people see your face in the parade. No growling."

"But that won't be scary!"

"Your choice."

Richard sighed. "If I sit on the detention bench can I still growl?"

"As long as your rear end stays on the bench, and you don't try to touch anyone, you can growl to your heart's content."

The boy grinned. "I'm gonna scare everybody!"

"From a safe distance. Hands off."

"Okay." They shook hands on it solemnly.

That afternoon, they had the Halloween parade. Richard – who had apologized to Jason and allowed the smaller boy to wear his mask during afternoon recess - sat on the Detention Bench outside the principal's office through the entire parade, roaring and growling, snarling and carrying on. By the time every class from 6th grade down to the smallest kindergarteners had passed by (310 children), he had nearly lost his voice, but his rear end stayed in contact with the seat even as he thumped and flailed and waved grasping fingers at giggling kindergarteners as they passed by. He was a one-man haunted house, and he gave it his all.

In a way Principal Henry's plan backfired, because the detention bench became known as the Monster Bench, and every year after that, another kid vied to get Monster Detention for the Halloween parade. The tradition still continues even though Richard "Frankenstein" Rodgers left PS 47 the following spring (something to do with putting Jello in the teacher's lounge toilet). It's been well over thirty years. Sometimes the big kids tease the little kids about it, and if you hear someone growling in the boy's bathroom on Halloween afternoon on a rainy day, there's nothing to be afraid of. Nothing at all. It's just the Ghost of the Son of Frankenstein, echoing down the hallowed halls.


	8. Chapter 8: Tiny Tim

**_Due to technical difficulties, you probably think I'm an idiot._**

 ** _The first time I published this chapter, it only had one sentence, and it was a whopper. I've no idea how that happened. How embarrassing!_**  
 ** _The second time it published in all bold, although it looks normal in the edit phase. Someone mentioned "closing a tag". But they posted as a guest so I can't ask them what that means._**

 ** _Will try reposting. Please let me know if it still looks funny._**

 ** _Thank you!_**

 ** _CD_**

* * *

 **Chapter 8**

 **November 1978**  
 **Chapter 7 - Age 7 ½**

 **The Untimely Death of Tiny Tim**

* * *

Richard sat on a tall man's shoulders, holding onto his crutch as they moved through the twilit, gas-lit streets of Ye Olde Victorian London. "You all right up there, Tim?"

Richard nodded, speaking out loud, in character. He struggled mightily with his English accent, which he would never, over the course of his long lifetime, get right. "Yes, Papa. Are we going to see Mr. Scrooge?"

Steve Wilson, who was playing Bob Crachitt, chuckled in a merrie-olde-Englunde sort of way. "That we are, my dear boy. We're going to wish him a happy Christmas!"

"I don't like 'im much," said Richard, improvising. Among the sea of Dickens Faire guests and cast participants, a chubby family in sweats stopped to take their picture. Richard smiled and waved his cane.

Wilson gave Richard a light, but not cruel, pinch at his knee and projected jovially. "Nonsense, my lad. That's 'ardly in the spirit of the season!"

"But 'e's mean! An' stinky!" Richard insisted. Jim Bonnie, the actor who played Scrooge, was actually a very nice man backstage, but he smelled a little like mothballs because of the woolen costume, and, being a consummate professional, he was a very sour-faced character anytime he was working the crowd.

Steve tipped his hat to a couple of actresses strolling by in strumpety clothes, flashing their cleavage and swishing their ruffled skirts. They were can-can dancers on their way to the 4 p.m. show at Bertha's Dockside Tavern. Richard heard one of the dancers chirp in a very passable Cockney: "Cor Blimey, that Tiny Tim Crachitt is cute as the Dickens!"

Steve stopped a moment, then set Richard down and stretched his sore back and shoulders. His Tiny Tim was no underfed four-year-old. The boy leaned on his little, little cane, that made him stoop and look shorter and younger than his actual age. Steve spoke quietly, dropping in and out of character in his frustration. "Now, see here, Tiny Tim. Are we going to behave, or is Papa going to make us limp back to the Green Room all by ourselves?"

"Bah _humbug_!" Richard shouted. He was tired, his costume was too tight around the waist, his back hurt from stooping, and he missed his mother, who was off at Fezziwig's teaching the sweaty masses how to dance like the Victorian bourgeoisie.

Steve glanced around nervously. "They are not paying me to babysit, Buster. You have one line. The line is _'God Bless Us Every One!'"_

The boy looked up at him with wide blue eyes. "What if there is no God?"

Steve took off his stovepipe hat, punched it a little bit inside, then slammed it back down on his head, seething, "Jesus Fucking Christ!"

Richard looked around anxiously, as if expecting to see The Man Himself strolling through the fake streets of Jolly Olde London Towne. He'd looked up 'fucking' in the dictionary and knew it was a bad word, although he wasn't sure entirely why, or what it had to do with Jesus... oh, the hell with it. He dropped his Tiny Tim cane and ran full bore through the crowd, easily losing Steve in the sea of hoop-skirts, wool, satin, and velvet. The Dickens Faire was a labyrinth of winding "streets", twisting and turning, inside an 1800s vintage shipping dock on San Francisco Bay. Richard ducked into an 'alley' to the backstage area, where characters, directors, dressers, dancers, singers, and stagehands worked or rehearsed or rested, depending on their schedule. A bone-chilling wind blew in under the immense rolling side doors, which were locked but still showed cracks of daylight around their edges. He dodged past a row of women in corsets and bloomers applying rouge in a brightly- lit makeup mirror, and picked up a drift of hairspray and glitter in passing. He knew that this backstage area had a pass-through to Fezziwig's Christmas Dance Hall. All he had to do was find it to make a beeline to his mother, slim and splendid in her peacock-colored velvet dress, and everything would be fine.

A little disoriented, he ducked through a black fabric curtain, then a red velvet one, and found himself on stage, blinded by bright lights, and before him was the most horrifying thing he had ever seen. Marley's ghost was portrayed by a tall old man, white and moldy-looking with a muslin kerchief around his jaw. He was festooned in several yards of very real-looking chain weighted with lockboxes, padlocks and keys. As Richard stepped out, the Ghost unfastened the wrap and his mouth dropped open, wide and black-toothed and horrible. Richard had never actually seen the Marley's Ghost scene in person, let alone found himself in the middle of it. Marley didn't really even notice the boy, who was below his eye level. The Ghost emitted the blood-curdling shriek of a soul being rent from body by demons, the implement of destruction a bit like those scary aluminum prying-grids they used to put in the bottom of ice cube trays.

Richard screamed and backed away in terror, only to find his shoulders gripped by a more-startled-than-usual Mr. Ebeneezer Scrooge. Jim Bonnie knew it was important to say "Yes!" to every improvisational opportunity while at the same time keeping control of a completely bolloxed situation.

Scrooge intoned, "And is this another spectre? Or – can this be the little Crachitt lad? Can it be... Tiny Tim?"

Panicked, the boy elbowed Mr. Scrooge right in the Scrooge Family Jewels.

"AGHH! HUMBUG!" screamed Mr. Scrooge, because Jim Bonnie really was a trooper even when under the most extreme duress. He staggered back into his chair, Richard fell back on top of him, then scrambled up and bounded away down the stairs to wild cheering and applause. Jim Bonnie was down on his knees, seeing stars, struggling to remember his lines as his gonads recovered from the sharpest little elbow in Christiandom.

The last words Richard heard from the stage were Mr. Scrooge's excruciating groan: "Mercy! Dreadful apparition, why do you trouble me?'' It would be some time before Mr. Bonnie even approached consummating much of anything.

The boy kept running, listening for the sound of the brass band. They were playing a lively Schottishce dance tune. As he approached Fezziwig's, the doorman, who knew the entire cast, waved him in. Richard, being one of the shortest people in the room, clambered onto the seat of a folding chair and stood tiptoe, peering about, and just caught a glimpse of Martha's flaming red hair, the corkscrew curls bobbing underneath a fetching lace cap.

"MOTHER!" he bellowed.

The Dickens Faire was noisy with conversation, the brass band, singers in the distance and hundreds of actors talking, the clash of blades at the fencing instruction booth down the way, the street musicians with dulcimers and concertinas, and all of it echoing down from the old wooden ceiling and steel rafters. Behind it all was the moan of a thin, cold draft rattling the huge doors. But somehow in the din, Martha heard her son and stopped cold, her face gone white as a sheet. She turned, looking for him at his normal height, and he placed two fingers to the corner of his lips and gave a shrill, short whistle. "Here!"

Her head popped up, and their eyes met across the room. The band faltered for a moment and everyone turned to stare at Richard, but Martha was already gliding toward him, smiling at everyone she passed, a batted eyelash here and a gentle touch there, reassuring guests that it was all part of the show, and it immediately went back to normal.

She approached him in character, her genteel London middle-class accent impeccable. "Oh, my dear lad, are you home from school?" She swept up all 43 pounds of him and hugged him. "How you've grown!" She didn't mention the dirt and tears on his face, or the wildness of his hair, or how he'd lost his cap somewhere and that would probably come out of her pay. "Shall we pour you a cup of hot cider?" She set him down (no easy task in a corset) and led him backstage by the hand. Her demeanor changed the moment they passed through the curtain.

"Richard, I don't know what's gotten into you. Aren't you supposed to be with Steven at the Crachitt set?"

"We were..." Richard's voice tightened. "I saw Marley's Ghost."

"Oh, Richard. Sweetheart, you know it's just a costume."

"I wasn't supposed to be onstage then. I think I, um, I think I hurt Mr. Bonnie."

"How?"

"I, uh. I backed into him." He made a sad little gesture with his elbow.

"Oh, dear," Martha sighed.

"I don't want to be Tiny Tim anymore. He's too short. Everybody looks at me." His brown leather boot scuffed a groove in the sawdust on the floor.

"You like it when people look at you."

"I don't like it when they feel _sorry_ for me!" He meant to sound angry, but it just came out as a whine.

"But they don't... it's just a character."

"They're looking at _me_!" he said. "I can't walk on my own, all I get to say is _'God Bless Us Everyone!'"_ (this he spoke in a cracked squeak) _"_ I keep bumping my head on things, and I feel like a stupid idiot. This gig is just _dumb_."

Martha nodded, a mix of sympathy and firm encouragement. "It's not always easy. But we do have a saying, Kiddo. The Show Must Go On."

"I know," he sighed. No, more a wobbly half-sob. She handed him a paper napkin. He blew his nose and wiped his face.

She said, "There are understudies for all the speaking parts. I wonder if we can get you swapped out to another role."

"I don't like acting."

"That's unfortunate, because you're quite gifted at it. Let's just see what we can do." Martha checked out with the Fezziwig's director and took Richard down to the show office, which was crowded with actors and managers there for different reasons (most of them being arguments). The chief of Security was there talking to costumed guards on their discreet little squawk-boxes - they'd been looking for Richard, ever since his encounter with Scrooge and Marley. Steve (aka Bob Crachitt) was in the office too, fuming.

"Where the hell did you go?" he snapped. "I have to be at Scrooge's in three minutes to wish him a fucking Merry Christmas..."

"Happy Christmas" several people corrected.

"...and now I hear you blew through the curtain at Scrooge's Parlor and kneed Bonnie in the balls!"

"Elbow," Richard managed to mumble.

The director, Peggy Greene, was a buxom woman in a soft brown wool dress, with sharp, beady eyes. She reminded Richard of a robin, quick, curious and smart. She said, "You're playing Tiny Tim?"

"Afternoon shift," said Martha.

"You're too tall," Peggy said. "This is ridiculous."

"I grew an inch since auditions."

"Can you run fast?"

"Like the wind!"

Martha added, "Now, watch this!" She pulled a quarter out of her little beaded purse, and said "Heads or tails?" She flipped it.

Richard caught it mid-air, then opened his hands in surprise. "Where did it go?" Then he sneezed, putting his hand over his nose, and when the hand came away from his face, there was the quarter in his palm. He grimaced at it in disgust. "Eeiw." Then he wiped it off on his pants and put it in his vest pocket.

The director laughed, and even Steve chuckled a bit.

Richard beamed. "I belong to the Amateur Magician's Club. I've been practicing."

"Look, we have a short kid in Fagin's who can't keep up with the rest of the cast, and we've got this behemoth riding around on Crachitt's shoulder? Who cast these people?" She sighed. "Never mind." She crossed something out with a pencil on Richard's sheet. "Now where to put you?"

She made a correction on another sheet, then did a similar move on Richard's.

"Okay, so now, Richard, you are Anonymous Pickpocket Boy 3. Your job is to hang around with the other thieves and pretend to pick pockets on the actors. NOT the guests. Can you tell the difference?"

"Track suits?"

"No. Hands off anybody you don't know by character name. Let me see you pick Mr. Crachitt's pocket."

Richard walked around back of Steve, looked up at the ceiling, and whistled casually to himself. Then he tried reaching into Steve's coat pocket. He got his hand most of the way in.

Steve grabbed Richard's wrist, with convincing but gentle firmness. "Aha! Thief!" Richard twisted his wrist out of the hold and scurried away to crouch behind a chair.

Steve said, "Barely caught you. With moves like that, you'll be playing the Artful Dodger by the time you're twelve."

Richard couldn't have looked happier if someone had handed him an Oscar and a bag of chocolate-covered marshmallows.

Peggy nodded. "Fine. Now go see Costume about a new hat, and check in with Gracie Lonigan, she's directing the pickpockets over behind the Shanty Stage. Steve, we'll get you a new Tiny Tim by 5. 'Kay?"

"Right. Thanks." Steve stalked out, but paused and ruffled Richard's hair. "Break a leg, brat."

"Break a leg, Papa Crachitt!" Richard called after him.  
•

The next time you go to a Dickens Faire, look for the ragged little kids in newsboy caps. The ones who are having more fun than humanly possible, sneaking around trying to avoid the Law, slipping small hands into overstuffed pockets. Befuddled "Bobbies' in frock coats chase them, their whistles ringing loud in the chilly air. There will be a boy, all knees and elbows and floppy puppy-large feet, with bright eyes and shaggy hair. He'll flirt with your daughter. He'll pull a quarter out of your three-year-old's ear. He'll invite your son to come and join up with the gang: "Three bowls of gruel a day and your own hammock, and you'll never have to shovel coal again!"

He'll steal your heart for about 30 seconds, then run off laughing in a swirl of sawdust.

He is Pickpocket Number 3, and he is having the time of his life.


End file.
